


Ninety-Three Sundays and More

by ensorcel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Groundhog's Day, Heavy Angst, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 09:33:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14399280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ensorcel/pseuds/ensorcel
Summary: Sherlock wishes he had less time.





	Ninety-Three Sundays and More

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zigostia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigostia/gifts).



> Disclaimer: All rights reserved to BBC One, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss. Any characters recognized do not belong to me.
> 
> Many thanks to my amazing beta, bringmayflowers.
> 
> A birthday present to my lovely writing partner in crime, [zigostia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigostia). Many happy returns.
> 
> Plot unabashedly ripped off from the film "Groundhog's Day".

Ninety-Three.

John falls.

Sherlock screams.

(There is so much blood.)

Why is there so much blood?

(Oh. Right.)

(Right.)

 

First.

There is nothing to do.

(Why is there nothing to do?)

Sherlock’s eyes dart around.

Empty cabinet. Once filled with crackers. Open fridge. It too, empty. Had a head before. Ceiling needs fixing. Leaking. Messy table. Piled with papers.

His eyes narrow.

Papers are missing.

Why are they missing?

Armchair once sat in. Thirty-eight degrees Celsius. Not once sat in. _Recently_ sat in. Smells of cologne. Smells familiar. (Not sure where from.)

He throws his arms up, and casually (why casually?— _date)_ John walks in. He is carrying a cup of coffee. Hundred and two degrees Celsius. Freshly brewed. His hands are scabbed. Sherlock’s eyes narrow. He then relaxes. It’s just from messing with Mrs. Hudson’s rose garden. (There are dirt specks in his fingernails. A small green leaf tucked underneath his sleeve.) Simple. Obvious.

He is wearing a light blue shirt. Brown sweater thrown over. Clean shoes. (Brown loafers.) He’s got product in his hair. Newly washed. _Date night._

John raises an eyebrow. Sherlock runs a hand through his hair.

“What’s up now?”

Sherlock sniffs in reply, and curls up in the armchair.

John merely shrugs, and plops down on the chair before him, nursing his cup of tea. It’s gone down a degree. Hundred and one. Sherlock huffs, and John ignores him. A sigh slips from John’s mouth.

“What’s it now, Sherlock?” John asks, and raises his newspaper. Sherlock burrows deeper into the armchair.

John doesn’t look up from his article.

“Sherlock…”

“I’m bored!” he exclaims, flipping over and huddling the pillow on the chair.

“Have fun being bored,” John says, and places his cup of coffee on the table with a small tick. (It is loud.) “I’m going out for a while. Can you—” He gestures at the open, empty fridge. Sherlock sighs.

“Thanks,” John says, and leaves through the door, gently closing it behind him. The front door closes shut. (It too, is loud.) The chair is now thirty-seven point eight degrees. The coffee is eighty-eight point two degrees. Sherlock sits up, walking over to the fridge, slamming it shut. He huffs, and wraps his robe tightly around him. He picks up his credit card off the dining table, which is by the way, perfectly clean. (He does not remember it being this clean in a long time.) Or so he thinks.

He slams the door on the way out, and Mrs. Hudson yells at him.

“Be back soon!” he hollers. Mrs. Hudson snaps, and he smirks.

Walking down the street and turning the corner in middle-day hustle bustle of London—that woman is having an affair, that man is applying for university, that girl is about to cry—Sherlock flies through the crowds of people, stepping foot into the busy grocery store.

Doesn’t quite remember the name, but it is always nineteen degrees in the building. (He is right. As usual.) A girl is wearing a bright pink tutu, a homeless man sits on the corner, and a woman with eyesore of sunglasses prances around near the checkout—flirting with her boyfriend. Sherlock shudders.

The apples are two cents cheaper than they were last week, the pears point five an ounce lighter, juice out of stock, and milk two degrees colder. He is quick, efficient, and makes it back to Baker Street in a matter of minutes. (Eleven minutes and twenty-four seconds, to be exact. He checks his watch. He is right. Again.)

(He doesn’t realise he has forgotten the crackers.)

John comes back in a few hours—seven hours, thirty-three minutes, and six seconds—smiling as he sees the fridge full and table tidied. (Sort-of.)

“Dinner?” Sherlock asks, and holds up the plate of pasta. (He was bored, wasn’t he?)

“Thanks,” John says, shooting Sherlock a grin. (Their hands brush. John is warm. Thirty-eight and a half degrees.) John sits down and digs into his meal. (Not literally. Figuratively, of course. Idiots.)

Sherlock flips up the newspaper John had left before he went to Danielle’s—or Stephanie’s, Janie’s—house. (He smells of perfume. Estee Lauder. Midnight No 5.) Nothing of importance. (Some man named “Benedict” had starred in a new movie, and had been cheated on.)

He slams the paper down. John’s teacup shifts slightly. He doesn’t look up, but takes a sip.

“Sherlock,” John sighs. “What’s up with you?”  

“Nothing,” Sherlock snaps. He punches his fork into the pasta. “Bored.”

John smirks, and sits back.

“When are you not?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply. He digs at his food. John frowns.

“Don’t pick at your food.”

Sherlock obeys. He doesn’t say anything.

“Don’t worry mate,” John says. “A case will turn up soon.”

Sherlock stabs his pasta again. John glares, but sighs once more.

“The pasta did nothing to you.”

Sherlock looks up at him. John raises an eyebrow.

“Eat.”

 

Second.

Sherlock is bored. Again. (He is not surprised.)

He flops down on the couch, staring straight up at the ceiling. (It needs fixing. He must tell Mrs. Hudson. Water is about to drip down.) He sticks out his tongue. He catches the small droplet of water. (Cold. Fifteen and a quarter degrees.)

The cabinet is empty. (Again.) The fridge is too. (Hadn’t he just gone out for groceries the day before?) (He had.) John is a fast eater. (He thinks.)

His desk is messy. (As usual.) Maybe he’ll clean it up. (He won’t.)

Papers everywhere. (As usual, again.)

Wait.

Papers aren’t messy. Papers are missing. (Why?)

(John.)

Armchair is empty. Like the cabinet. And fridge. Thirty-eight degrees Celsius. Recently sat in. (John.) Smells of cologne. Familiar. (John.)

He sits up.

The door creaks open.

John walks in.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow.

There are scabs on his knuckles. (Dirt underneath his fingernails.) Sherlock frowns. John looks at him strangely. Carefully.

Sherlock’s spine straightens. He squints at John’s hands. (Something is off.)

“What’s wrong?” he asks. (Bracing for the worst.) John’s hands shake. (There is more dirt around his fingers.) Sherlock places a hand on the armchair. The air stills. (Or so he thinks.)

“Nothing,” John says. It’s too quick. “I mean,” he stammers. Sherlock stares at him. (Intensely.) “I mean,” he repeats.

“John?” Sherlock asks. (Slowly. Must be slowly.)

“Well,” he mumbles. Sherlock resists the urge to shake the man. “Mycroft’s in a bit of trouble.” Sherlock sits up, confused. (This was not expected. Not at all.)

“Trouble?” he says. Slowly. (Again.)

“Call him,” John spits out. He walks around quickly. Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Just do it,” John responds. (Shaky.) Sherlock picks up his phone (slowly) and taps in Mycroft’s number. (The phone is cold. 555-444-222.)

It rings.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

Out.

Voicemail.

_“Mycroft Holmes is unavailable at the moment. Please refer to his secretary for details.”_

(Third person. As usual.)

John pales. (He drops five and three quarters shades lighter. Perhaps it is six eighths?)

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock fires off a text to his brother.

The phone buzzes in his hand within seconds. (Dentist.)

_What is it now, brother dear? -MH._

Sherlock scoffs.

_Someone is rather distressed. -SH._

John has sat down in his armchair. It is warm again. (Thirty-eight and a half degrees. There is a cup of coffee in his hands.) He is wearing his light blue shirt, collar peeking out of of the cashmere sweater. Shoes clean. (Loafers.) Date night. (Again?)

_Just a few files lost. -MH._

Sherlock glances up, glaring slightly at John.

 _Is that what’s gotten him so riled up? A few files lost? -SH._ (He is mocking. Mycroft can hear. Obviously.)

_Not sure what else. Important files. North Korea problems—forget it. -MH._

Sherlock turns off the phone.   

“A few files?” John nods.

“Government secrets!” he exclaims. He throws his hands up. (He looks rather attractive when angry, doesn’t he?)

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

“Government secrets!” John repeats.

“What about?” Sherlock asks. (John’s brow is furrowed.) John sighs, and picks up the newspaper beside him. (It flutters. Angled at sixty degrees—no, fifty-nine and three quarters.) Sherlock burrows into his chair, crossing his arms. (John sighs again.)

“What is it now?”

“Bored.”

John doesn’t look up from his newspaper.

“Have fun being bored. I’m going out for a while,” John says, and places his cup on the table with small tick. It’s loud. “Can you—” he gestures at the empty fridge. Sherlock sits up.

“Didn’t I just go out for them yesterday?” Sherlock spits.

John looks at him questioningly.

“Pardon?”

“Didn’t I just go out for them yesterday?” Sherlock repeats. (He jests.)

“No?” John is confused. (It is easy to tell when he is confused. Furrowed brow. Sometimes raised eyebrows. Wide eyes. Sometimes in a squint. Hands usually in pockets. Sometimes at side. Back always straight. Military. Simple. Easy. Obvious.)

Sherlock hums. John huffs.

“I will.”

John is surprised. Also obvious. (John has always been obvious to John.)  

“Thanks,” John says, and sweeps out of the room in a distinct scent of cologne. (Same as yesterday.) He closes the door gently, but does not do the same with the front. It slams. (It is loud.) Thirty-seven point eight degrees. John’s chair. Beginning to cool. (Along with the coffee: eighty-eight point two degrees.)

Sherlock suddenly sits up, stalks over to the fridge, and slams it shut. The sound is oddly satisfying. (Not as long as the front door, but loud enough.) He huffs, wrapping his robe tightly around him. (Though it is not cold.) Grabbing his credit card off the dining table, the strangely clean dining table, he slams the door on the way out, and ignores Mrs. Hudson’s yells at him.

“Be back soon!” he shouts. Mrs. Hudson does not reply. He smirks.

He stalks down the street in his dressing gown with his coat flung over, and it is a warm twenty-two point three degrees outside. Warm, he thinks. He turns the corner in mid-day hustle and bustle of the restlessness of London—that man is apply for university, probably an American one (from his stance and his hair and his accent), that woman is having an affair (from her brightly painted nails to her waterproof phone), and that girl is about to cry (that one is so obvious anyone could spot it)—and flies into the small grocery store. The name is muddled in his mind, but he does remember that it is always nineteen degrees in the building, and he, as usual, is right. Homeless man sits on the corner, Sherlock tosses him a twenty dollar bill, a girl is wearing an atrocious bright pink tutu, and a woman with eyesore sunglasses flounces around the cashier, flirting with her boyfriend. (Sherlock grimances.)

Apples are two cents cheaper than last week, pears point five an ounce lighter, milk two degrees colder, and juice out of stock. Sherlock frowns. (Same as yesterday. Though expected. Change takes time.)

He is quick. Makes it back to Baker Street in eleven minutes, twenty-four seconds. (Glances down at his watch. He is right.) He frowns again. Same as yesterday.

(He once again, doesn’t realise he has forgotten the crackers.)

John steps in seven hours, thirty-three minutes, six seconds later. A smile appears on his face when he sees the fridge stocked and table tidied. (Almost. Kind of.)

“Dinner?” Sherlock asks. He holds up a plate of pasta. (He was bored.)

John’s smile beams. (Sherlock beams.)

Their hands brush. John is warmer than he’d thought. (Coming in from the cold and all. Though it wasn’t that cold to begin with.) Thirty-eight and a half degrees. John sits down, and begins to eat his meal.

Sherlock opens the newspaper John had been reading before. (John smells of perfume. Estee Lauder? Chanel? Estee Lauder. Midnight No 5. Expensive) News is as boring and useless as the day before. (But Sherlock cannot seem to remember anything about the day before. Strange. Case? Perhaps.) The paper is flung down. John frowns.

“What’s up with you?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock snorts. His fork stabs into the pasta. “Bored.”

John smirks. (He’s pretty when he does that, isn’t he? Friend-wise, of course. Idiots.)

“When are you not?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply. He messes around with his food. John frowns again.

“Don’t pick at your food.” Sherlock complys.

“Don’t worry mate,” John says. He picks up the newspaper Sherlock was reading. “A case will turn up soon.”

Sherlock jabs at his pasta again. John scowls. He sighs again.

“Pasta did nothing to you,” he declares. (Almost in a sing-song voice. Three pitches higher than usual.)

Sherlock glares at him. John raises an eyebrow.

“Eat.”

 

Third.

Sherlock is bored. Again. (The gun is tempting.)

He flounders down on the couch. The ceiling needs fixing. Water is going to drip down. Sticking out his tongue, he catches a droplet. (Cold. Fifteen and a quarter degrees.) Same as yesterday. He frowns.

Cabinet is empty. Again. Like yesterday. His frown deepens. Fridge is too. It’s open. (Hadn’t he gone out for groceries during the past two days?) John is a fast eater. But not that fast. (Not to Sherlock’s knowledge at least.)

Desk is messy. (As usual.)

Papers are everywhere.

Stop.

Like yesterday.

Sherlock narrows his eyes.

He snatches up his phone.

The date glares up at him.

Sunday, April 22nd.

Sunday, April 22nd.

_Sunday, April 22nd._

Sherlock stares at it again. (And again. And again. And again.) It doesn’t change. Like it hasn’t changed for the past three days.

He rubs his eyes.

It’s still Sunday, April 22nd.

He grabs John’s laptop.

Sunday, April 22nd.

Grabs John’s phone.

Sunday, April 22nd. (How is this possible?)

He paces around.

His footsteps echo in his ears. The date does too.

His hands run through his hair. He sits down. Stands up. Walks over the couch. Mrs. Hudson yells at him for the racket. He ignores her.

Front door closes. It is loud. (John.)

He’s going insane. Must be it. He’s going insane. (Can’t tell John. Can’t tell John.)

John flops down into his armchair. (Thirty-eight degrees.)

Wait. Stop.

Thirty-eight degrees. He’s not going insane.

John’s hands are scabbed again. There is dirt underneath his nails. Mrs. Hudson’s rose gardens. (Why didn’t he notice? How didn’t he notice?)

Fridge empty. Like the beginning of the days. Like the beginning of Sunday, April 22nd. (How did he not notice?—Hindsight is powerful.)

He gets up, and gets dressed. Properly. For the first time in three days. (Well, three days could be debated.)

He sighs. This means he needs to buy groceries every single day. He needs to go out every single day. Sherlock groans.

He texts Mycroft.

_Make sure to backup the North Korea files. -SH._

Sherlock smiles. This is going to be a lot better than he’d thought.

 

Fifth.

_Back up the North Korea files. -SH._

His fingers fly over the keys.

The ceiling needs fixing. He catches droplets on his tongue for amusement. (Must tell Mrs. Hudson. But the day resets, doesn’t it?) He’s made habit of checking his phone every morning. (It always says Sunday, April 22nd.) He doubts it’s to change.

Cabinet is always empty, fridge too, and all left open. His desk is messy; he never cleans it up, papers are everywhere, and John doesn’t show up until 10:15 AM. His armchair is always thirty-eight degrees exactly, and the scent of cologne never changes.

When John walks in, he has scabs all over his knuckles, and dirt underneath his fingernails.

At 10:45 AM, John asks Sherlock to buy groceries. He leaves two minutes after.

Sherlock arrives promptly at the store at 10:56 AM.

The girl in the pink tutu holds her mother’s hand tightly. He hands the homeless man a twenty dollar bill. The woman flirting with her boyfriend the cashier, will never take off the obnoxious sunglasses.

Apples are two cents cheaper than last week, pears point five an ounce lighter, milk is two degrees colder, and juice is always out of stock.

He gets back at 11:07:24 AM.

The beginning of the day is always the same.

At noon, that is when the trouble begins to toil. (It is the part Sherlock likes best. Other than the John parts, of course. He relishes those.) Except on the second day. Trouble began before noon, and Sherlock has not yet figured out why. He hasn’t figured out why he’s stuck in this time loop either. (There are some things even the great Sherlock Holmes does not question. He may not be the best person, but when it comes to cases—oh cases!—he knows when the toe the line, and when to cross it. With this, he knows when to stop.)

He wonders what the problem will be today.

He doesn’t have to wait long.   

A fire in downtown London.

He adds it to his list.

He waits.

Six cars crashed in the upper end of London.

Scratched onto the list.

John comes back at 6:50:30 PM.

Sherlock makes pasta. (Sometimes it’s noodles. Maybe he’ll take John out to that nice restaurant Mycroft took him to but refused to like.)

Tomorrow, he knows, will be Sunday, April 22nd.

 

Ninth.

There is a heaviness to this, time loop, whatever it may be. A heaviness after the joy leaves. A sense of duty. (He’s sure John understands.)

He texts Mycroft to backup files, goes out for groceries, calls the fire department about an upcoming fire, emails Lestrade about a car crash, tells Mrs. Hudson to never leave the building, asks Molly to inspect the body of Chris Wattling a little more carefully, and warns his homeless network of caution. Sometimes people believe him. Many times they don’t.

Sherlock has tried to prove to them.

He tried to reason with the fire department.

“How do you know about this?” they asked.

“I just do,” he replied, careful and calm. (Because it happens everyday.)

On the seventh day the man believes him. On the eighth he doesn’t. Today he doesn’t either. Lestrade trusts him. (Why he wouldn’t, Sherlock doesn’t know.) So the crash is prevented. Mrs. Hudson doesn’t leave her apartment. Molly hits newspapers in solving one of the greatest mysteries in London history. Those in his homeless network don’t get held at gunpoint. He supposes there is a win to this time loop. (He can do whatever he wishes. Nothing impacts nothing.)

But the heaviness never leaves.

 

Fifteenth.

The news blows up.

Downtown London. Bombed. Body count: hundred and seven. Injured: hundred and seventy. Numbers expected to rise.

Sherlock places his head in his hands.

He jumps up.

John.

No.

No.

_John._

Calls John.

The phone rings from his armchair.

“Fuck.” (His voice shakes.)

He runs out. Calls Mycroft. Demands for the names. John’s is not on the list. Not yet at least.

It takes him five minutes, forty-two seconds to make it to Danielle’s house.

He bangs on the door.

John opens it.

He sighs in relief. Nearly hugs him.

The numbers rise up to hundred and fifty dead. Nearly two hundred injured. (At least it wasn’t John.)

At least the day resets.

 

Sixteenth.

He calls Mycroft about the past-and-future bombing.

He doesn’t pick up.

Sherlock dials Lady Smallwood.

Once again, left to her voicemail.

Punches in the number to Lady Vivian.

Voicemail.

Nearly throws the phone into the wall.

Calls Mr. Thompson.

_“Hello, you have reached Mr. Thompson. Any questions can be referred to his secretary at 555-666-777…”_

Sherlock slams the phone into the wall. Mrs. Hudson yells. He doesn’t care. He grabs John’s phone from the table beside his armchair. It is cold. (Ten degrees.) He doesn’t notice John walking in.

He has four hours. He didn’t go out for groceries. Seven lives are lost in a car crash. Two in a fire. Molly loses her chance at fame. Three of his homeless network are shot. Mrs. Hudson gets questioned by the police for five hours. One drowns in the river, but he has managed to save the files on North Korea, so that’s something at least. (Where is Mycroft when he needs him?)

He calls the Prime Minister.

“Beg your pardon Mr. Holmes, but—”

“Listen to me,” Sherlock spits. “Over a hundred lives will be lost this afternoon if you do not do as I say. Downtown London will be bombed.”

The Prime Minister doesn’t reply.

“Mr. Prime Minister,” he growls.

“How do you know this?” the Prime Minister finally asks.

“I just do. It is not a joke,” Sherlock spats.

He sighs.

“Very well.”

An hour. A hundred and seventy-four lives are saved. Two hundred and three injured unharmed. He shoves his head into his hands.

“Sherlock?” John’s back.

Sherlock gives him a weak smile.

“What was that about?” he asks. His voice is small. “Something about a bomb?”

Sherlock grins feebly.

“Nothing.”

He looks to the ceiling. It needs fixing.

“Nothing at all.”

 

Twenty-First.

He texts Mycroft. Calls Lestrade. Argues with the Prime Minister. And President of the United States. And the General Assembly of the United Nations. Sometimes he wins. Sometimes he doesn’t. (But he does not relish the victory anymore. He has forgotten how.)

Today, he wins with the Prime Minister. Downtown London is not bombed. Over a hundred lives saved.

He does not win with the President. America receives airstrikes. Nearly two hundred are killed. (Another time, he would’ve nagged in the President’s face. He finds that he cannot find himself to care about his pride anymore.)

He wins with the General Assembly. He tends to win with them more than the other two. North Korea does not bomb China.

It’s heavy. This duty.

(It is not one he was born to bear.)

(For he isn’t supposed to be this good of a person.)

(Is this even a good person?)

If it is, he’s not sure if he wants to be good anymore.

He’s not sure if he wants to be anything anymore.

 

Twenty-Seventh.  

He’s taking John out for dinner today. No more Chinese takeout. Or pasta. Or badly made noodles.

They’re going to a very nice place on the edge of London (Sherlock ignores the fact that downtown will be bombed) that Mycroft recommended. (Sherlock tells himself that he’s going so he can rag on the restaurant to Mycroft after.)

“Don’t go to Danielle’s,” Sherlock says. John snaps up at him.

“Why?”

“I have plans,” Sherlock replies. He picks up the newspaper.

“ _You_ have plans?” John asks, flabbergasted.

“Yep,” Sherlock quips. “Plans with you.”

(If Sherlock had been looking, he would’ve noticed that John was blushing.)

“What plans?” John sounds hesitant.

“Plans.”

John picks up his phone. Dials Danielle’s number. Sherlock smiles.

He ignores the news channel playing on the television.

He ignores the hundreds of lives lost that day.

(Because Sherlock Holmes shouldn’t have been picked to be the saviour of this world.)

 

Thirty-Second.

Sherlock wakes up late.

He takes John out for evenings. Lunches. Mornings.

He watches as John’s eyes light up as they walk through museums. Parks. (The boring stuff the old Sherlock would’ve hated long ago.)

But seeing John happy is enough for him.

(Nearly.)

 

Thirty-Fourth.

Downtown London. Bombed.

United States of America. Airstrikes launched.

North Korea. Nuclear bombs released.

Hundreds dead. Thousands injured.

Sunday, April 22nd, the day of the Reckoning.

The day mankind has met its match.

(No, they should not have picked Sherlock Holmes to be their hero.)

 

Thirty-Eighth.

The ceiling needs fixing.

(So does the world.)

Sherlock doesn’t care.

The day resets itself. Why should any of this matter to him?

The news blasts on the television. John turns it up.

Sherlock shuts it off.

John glares at him.

Sherlock sulks.

(Sherlock Holmes was the last man they should’ve ever chosen for their Superman.)

 

Forty-Third.

Sunday, April 22nd. The day of the Reckoning.

Sherlock does not ask John to cancel his date.

John does not stay.

He watches as the ceiling needs fixing, the groceries need to be bought, Mycroft needs to be texted, Lestrade called, the Prime Minister argued with, along with the President, and General Assembly.

He has lost track of what other disasters he has missed.

Walks out. Buys groceries. Texts Mycroft. Calls Lestrade.

He wins with the Prime Minister. Wins with the President. Loses with the General Assembly.

Five hundred lose their lives today.

At least it’s not a thousand.

At least the day resets.

 

Forty-Sixth.

He does not ask John to cancel his date anymore. John, of course, does not remember. (The day resets, after all.)

Sherlock sulks in his apartment.

No, this was not a hero they should’ve chosen.

Sometimes, he calls Lestrade. Or Mycroft. Or argues with the Prime Minister.

Sometimes, he can’t find it in him. After all, all his hard work will disappear the next day, and he’d have to do it all over again. (What was the point?)

He loses with the Prime Minister. Loses with the President. Loses with the General Assembly. (Might as well have asked John to play hooky with him.)

Sunday, April 22nd. The Reckoning.

(What a suitable name.)

(Ironic. Idiots.)

 

Forty-Ninth.

He hates the news. (Hates his failure.)

He wonders if he dies, if he will fall out of this time loop. (It turns out he does not need to purposefully try.)

(Doesn’t try it yet.)

He argues with the Prime Minister and wins. Loses with the President, and wins with the General Assembly.

Two hundred lives lost. (Guess that’s better than five hundred. Or a thousand.)

He finds that he will take what he can get nowadays.

He finds that he has settled.

(Heroes do not settle.)

 

Fifty-Sixth.

The days do not change. The date does not change.

When he loses with all three, the title of “The Reckoning” is dubbed Sunday, April 22nd, and when he wins with all three, it is not dubbed anything at all. (Funny, this world. His failures become jests, his successes become nothings.)

(Though he knows, he does not deserve recognition for his task. He doesn’t always succeed, after all.)

The television never plays.

Sometimes Sherlock does not wake for days.

 

Fifty-Eighth.

John goes out to Danielle’s.

Sometimes Sherlock buys groceries. Sometimes he doesn’t.

He does today.

The girl is still wearing her tutu, but he doesn’t toss a twenty-dollar bill at the homeless man, and the woman is still flirting with her boyfriend with her monstrous sunglasses. The store is still nineteen degrees, and the apples remain two cents cheaper than last week, pears one point five ounces lighter, juice out of stock, and milk two degrees colder.

He arrives home. He does not except any disasters yet. (He’s already texted Mycroft.)

(He should always expect disasters.)

(What a hero.)

The television is already on. John must’ve left it on.

Sherlock doesn’t have enough time to turn it off.

The blasts. (It’s loud.)

He looks away. (Not fast enough.)

(He is never fast enough.)

_“Central London. Two reporters shot. One civilian. Details to be updated.”_

The television personality speaks clearly. Quickly. Solemnly.

His head whips around.

_“Victims identified at the moment are Karen Firth, Taylor Smith, John Watson, Maggie Hunt, and Kieran Goldburn.”_

Sherlock stops.

(Wait.)

(Stop.)

(Everything.)

_“Victims identified at the moment are Karen Firth, Taylor Smith, John Watson, Maggie Hunt, and Kieran Goldburn.”_

(John.)

John.

Victims.

John Watson.

(He doesn’t call Lestrade, warn Mrs. Hudson, donate to his homeless network, argue with the Prime Minister, President, and General Assembly. Sunday, April 22nd is dubbed “The Reckoning”, and John Watson is simply another name in the hundreds lost.)

(There is nothing extraordinary about John Watson to the world.)

(It is just a name. A very common name.)

Wait.

Stop.

A very common name.

Sherlock flings on his coat, and runs out of the apartment. Mrs. Hudson does not yell at him: she’s been taken in for questioning. (It’s his fault.) He cannot find it in him to care at the moment.

He calls Lestrade. He’s busy dealing with the car crash. His voice is serious. Solemn. (“I’m sorry Sherlock.”)

Sherlock doesn’t believe it.

(Nor does he want to.)

He makes it to Central London in five minutes flat. (Five minutes, twenty-four seconds, and thirty-two milliseconds, to be exact.)

He doesn’t remember what he says. (But what the officer said. That stays.)

(Will always stay.)

“You’re his flatmate, you say?”

“Yes!” Sherlock cries. He wishes he could shake the man. (He doesn’t. Won’t get the information if he did.)

“Shot,” the officer replies.

Sherlock stumbles.

(He doesn’t remember what happens after.)

(Please, let the day reset, he begs.)

(Please.)

 

Sixtieth.

Sunday, April 22nd.

Sherlock can’t find a way to make John stay.

(“Let’s play hooky.”)

(“No, Sherlock, I’ve got to go.”)

And Sherlock lets him go.

He calls Danielle. Tells her to make sure they both stay inside that day. She’s confused. But she agrees.

(Sherlock feels triumph. John will not die today.)

(Not today.)

The television is always on.

He tries to turn away.

(He fails.)

(As usual.)

_“Central London. Two reporters shot. Three civilians. Details to be updated.”_

Sherlock snaps around.

His eyes widen.

_“Victims identified at the moment are Karen Firth, Taylor Smith, John Watson, Maggie Hunt…”_

He places his head in his hands.

(The television is turned off.)

 

Sixty-Fourth.

Sherlock does not notice the leaky ceiling, or the empty fridge, or the list that he had so cautiously made about all the events he had to prevent. He has not spoken to the Prime Minister, President, or General Assembly in seven days. He does not bother. Everyday is Sunday, April 22nd now, the day of the Reckoning. (What’s the point?)

He spends his time trying to prevent John’s death.

Calls Mycroft.

Tells him to have a crew to follow John.

He smirks. This must work.

(Hint: it does not.)

He turns the television on.

There is nothing about Central London.

He grins.

Calls John. (Forgets that he had left his phone in the flat.)

Rings out.

“ _Central London. Two reporters shot. One civilian. Details to be updated.”_

Sherlock sighs.

_“Victims identified at the moment are Karen Firth, Taylor Smith, John Watson…”_

He places his head in his hands.

Thank god the day resets.

 

Sixty-Eighth.

This time, Sherlock walks down to Danielle’s place himself.

He is fast. (Five minutes, forty-two seconds.) Bangs on the door.

“John!” he exclaims.

“Sherlock? What the hell are you doing here?” He wearing a robe. In the middle of the day. (Sherlock’s heart sinks.)

“Don’t leave this flat today, OK?” Sherlock spits. “Just don’t leave!”

John looks at him curiously. It then changes to anger.

“I can do whatever the hell I want, thank you very much,” he replies. (He’s about to slam the door in Sherlock’s face.)

“Don’t go to Central London, John,” Sherlock gasps.

The door slams.

Sherlock sulks.

Once back at Baker Street, the television is still running. He turns it off. He doesn’t want to hear it.

(Too late.)

_“Victims identified at the moment are Karen Firth, Taylor Smith, John Watson…”_

Sherlock cries.

 

Seventy-Third.

He hears a snippet of a conversation from Mycroft when he’s on the phone. Bits and pieces about research for a time loop, only can be escaped when love is reciprocated. Sherlock freezes.

Time loop.

Love.

John.

He sighs.

The television is never running anymore.

He knows John is dead anyways.

(What’s the point?)

 

Seventy-Fifth.

Sherlock runs down to Danielle’s. It is exactly 5:00 PM. John gets shot in thirty-four minutes and twenty seconds.

The gun feels heavy in his coat pocket.

(And then he hears it.)

The first gunshot.

His hand is steady. Shoots in the direction of the noise. (One down. Four to go.)

The door to Danielle’s flat opens.

(No!)

Too late.

(He is always too late.)

There is blood.

A lot of blood.

Too much blood. (Always too much.)

“John!”

 

Seventy-Sixth.

Sherlock is at Danielle’s at promptly 5:00 PM. He has a gun in his pocket. (It is heavy.) He stands in front of the door. Casually. Waiting.

The first gunshot. Sherlock ignores it.

The second. Sherlock ignores it.

The third. John comes out.

A bullet goes through Sherlock’s stomach.

(The pain.)

(Stop.)

(Stop it.)

It goes black.

 

Seventy-Eighth.

He makes it to Danielle’s. Gun in pocket. Phone in hand. Looks normal. Usual. Ordinary.

First gunshot. Second. Third. Fourth.

John gets hit by the fifth.

Sherlock the sixth.

He does not remember the rest.

 

Eighty-Second.

It is a habit. (He has made it a habit.)

Be at John’s at 5:00 PM. First gunshot goes off at 5:24 PM. Second, third, fourth, and fifth come quickly after. Within seconds.

This time, Sherlock gets hit by the sixth. John the seventh.

He wonders when he should give up.

 

Eighty-Ninth.

He has stopped going to Danielle’s.

He has stopped carrying a gun.

He has stopped noticing the cracked ceiling, the empty fridge, and the long list of disasters he needs to prevent.

Dying doesn’t even work in this time loop.

(But John will never love him. Not like that.)

He chuckles darkly.

The great Sherlock Holmes has fallen underneath the pressures of time. (Quite literally.)

 

Ninety-First.

Funny, how the world picked Sherlock Holmes to be their hero.

Funny, how John Watson picked Sherlock Holmes to be his flatmate.

Funny, how Sherlock fails at everything he tries in this time loop.

(Today, he picks up the courage to kiss John on the lips.)

He smells like coffee and cologne, and his mouth is terribly soft. (It lasts for two seconds and a half.)

John jerks away.

“Sherlock?”

(He takes the gun and shoots himself.)

 

Ninety-Third.

John falls.

Sherlock screams.

(There is so much blood.)

Why is there so much blood?

(Oh. Right.)

(Right.)

 

**FIN.**

 

> _"Time will pass; these moods will pass; and I will, eventually, be myself again."  Kay Redfield Jamison, An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness _

**Author's Note:**

> I lost a bet, needed to write a Sherlock fic, and had to buy a gift for a friend. Decided to kill three birds with one stone, and if you enjoyed, please let me know what you thought! First time writing Sherlock :)


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